


a little taste of regret

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dark, Death, Graphic Descriptions of Injuries, Guilt, Hallucinations, John Watson - Freeform, M/M, Macabre, Not really Johnlock, One Shot, Other, POV Second Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Suicide, dubious mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-13 15:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: I'd be lost without my blogger





	a little taste of regret

**Author's Note:**

> title inspired by lyrics to 'paint the seconds' by chevelle
> 
> "More often than not,  
we belong,  
albeit with  
a little taste of regret.
> 
> The sooner we enter,  
the sooner we'll blend.  
Ease into another  
endless abyss."
> 
> ————
> 
> So. I originally wrote this back in 2011 when I was deep into the fandom, which was also when I wrote a lot of horror-style stories. I found this fic lurking in my laptop and decided to dust it off, polish it up, and finally write an ending (see: two sentences at the end). It definitely was written well before season 2 aired. 
> 
> This story is pretty dark, so here's a heads up. There are gruesome descriptions and a lot of depersonalization/hallucination/guilt-type scenes. I am also including a TW for suicide.

It starts with the note.

Suicide? That’s what everyone seems to think.

But you’re not everyone. And you can see, plain as day, this is definitely not suicide. How can everyone be so easily led astray? You could tell from one look at the body, at the writing.

“Sherlock—I don’t see the connection.” Lestrade runs a hand through his cropped hair and shakes his head. His face creases in a frown as he sighs, and he looks tired. Rundown. Your eyes flicker toward him and the corner of your mouth twitches. Not enough sleep—fighting with his wife again. Sleeping on the couch for the past…three nights, given the way he holds his head. An attempt at accommodating a severe neck cramp. Your eyes dart over him, searching, and pause at his wrist. The subtle glint of gold links peeks from beneath the hem of his sleeve.

Ah. Spent too much on a watch and now he's in the doghouse. You snort, earning a curious look from John—the only one close enough to pick up the sound—and smile to yourself.

Why doesn’t anyone realize how easy they make it for you?

Lifting your head, you tear your eyes from the body of the young man, lying face-down in a pool of his own blood, throat slit. You meet Lestrade's gaze.

“Isn’t it obvious?” You ask in a cool voice, eyebrows rising. Lestrade scowls, arms folding over his chest as he angles his body away. Tension radiates from every muscle, and now the neck-cramp is so obvious, a four-year-old could point it out. Your eyes slide to John, wondering what he might make of it. But John is looking at the body, face blank and eyes dark with regret. You sigh. Even now, you grow tired at the realization that you are the only observant person in the room. Possibly on the entire planet. The only one who analyzes each and every human, object, and surrounding encountered.

Some say it makes you a freak, but you disagree. It makes you _smart._ Clever. It’s second-nature. Instinct: survival of the fittest.

Rolling your shoulders, you stride past Lestrade and he steps aside in surprise. Marching to the evidence spread over a table, you pick up the bag holding the suicide note. Your long, pale fingers make subtle creases in the plastic.

“_This_.” You insist, waving the preserved note under Lestrade’s nose. “This explains _everything_.” The Detective-Inspector scowls again, taking the bag and placing it back on the table.

“Well, Sherlock—you’ll have to excuse me for not understanding what a suicide note has to do with what hand this guy held his spoon with.” Overhearing, Donovan rolls her eyes. You note the movement and your lips set in a thin, hard line.

“The writing.” You say, stressing the words and speaking slow. “How can you not _see_?”

Lestrade sighs, gripping the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Spit it out, Sherlock—I’m not in the mood.”

You snort, before drawing yourself up straight, and moving over to the body again. Kneeling, you point at the dead man’s left hand. “He is left-handed—the writing, it slants the wrong way.” You sigh, the soft sound implying exactly what you think of Lestrade’s intellect—or lack of. “The writing is clearly from someone _right-handed_. So tell me, Detective—why would a left-handed man write a suicide note with his non-dominant hand? Why would _anyone_, for that matter, do _anything_ with their non-dominant hand if it would cause inconvenience? The writing is concise, neat. Not the chicken scratch of someone struggling to write with the wrong hand.”

“How do you know he’s not ambidextrous?” Donovan pipes up, walking over to stand beside Lestrade. “Bet you never thought of that, did you, freak?”

You smile, a minute turning up of the corners of your lips.

“Of course I have, Sally. I’m shocked it took you this long to think of the possibility. Or that you thought of it at all.” Sighing, you gesture around the room. “Must we go over the same ritual as we did before, with the man from the bank, the man everyone assumed shot himself?”

“I wasn’t even on that case, remember?” Lestrade says, words terse as he folds his arms a little tighter over his chest. You ignore him, waving your hand and dismissing his words.

“It’s not suicide. It’s murder. Someone killed him and tried to make it look like a suicide. They planted the note—which was, quite obviously, _not _written by this man here.” You point at the body on the floor.

Behind you, Lestrade sighs. “We’ll run the note for clues—and I want every pen in this house dusted for fingerprints. It’s possible the murder left it behind.”

“It is more than possible—it’s likely.” You correct, turning around. “He would never expect someone to analyze the note. He would have assumed everyone either too grief-stricken, or unobservant.”

“You’re an arrogant know-it-all, you know that?” Donovan snaps, pushing past him to inform the evidence team of the new orders. You smile, folding your hands together behind your back.

“I believe I have reason to act as such if that is any comfort.” You say easily, trying to catch John’s eye. He looks at you, mouth quirking in what could almost be a smile, before looking back to the body with a frown.

“It isn’t.” Donovan retorts, and you smile again.

“That was brilliant, the bit with the writing.”

John’s voice comes from behind you as he mounts the stairs into the flat. Sitting on the couch, you nod, eyes on the screen of the laptop set on the coffee table in front of you. “Was it?” You muse, leaning your chin on your hand and looking up at him, rubbing at your own cheek. He laughs and sinks into his chair across from you, settling back against the cushion with a groan. Your eyes flicker up as he rubs at his bad shoulder. His eyes are closed, face strained, and your fingers pause on the keyboard. When he looks up, you are already back to your earlier position. Eyes skating across the screen, you read the police report from the suicide-termed-murder.

“Is that my laptop?” John asks suddenly. You nod, scrolling through the report.

“Yes—mine has a virus.”

“Then… fix it?” He suggests, standing up. You look up at him, head tilted back.

“I’m not a computer technician, John—I’m a consulting detective.”

“And here I thought that meant you knew everything.” John sighs. He considers confiscating the laptop from you as usual, then seems to change his mind.

“I see no correlation between the two.” You say, pausing to write something in a small notebook you pull from your pocket. John shakes his head, laughs, and disappears into the kitchen.

You find yourself in a constant struggle as you try to understand exactly what makes up your life right now. Work, cases, deductions.

John.

One of those things isn’t as straightforward as the others. Doesn’t quite fit and continues to dumbfound you as you try to dig up any reason why he hasn’t walked out on you yet. A song plays in your head: _“one of these things is not like the others.”_ You shake your head, slotting the snippet away for future deletion, wondering where it came from in the first place.

No one else has been able to stand you for so long. Even your own brother can’t take you for more than an hour, and the feeling is mutual. Usually, they grow tired of your constant belittling. The biting sarcasm and lack of empathy. You’re a sociopath. You don’t understand how to please people, and you don’t expect them to like you. Most of the time, you don’t particularly care.

Except when it comes to John. If John were to push you away as you constantly expect him to, if he finally said, _‘to hell with it’_, and forced you out of his life, you think you would regret it. You think it might bother you. That it might actually _hurt _you, and it scares you. Scares you so the very thought leaves you shaken and startled for hours after.

Because no one has ever gotten to you like this before. No one has ever made the effort to find out who you are, what makes you tick. No one has bothered to tolerate your difficult personality just to be near you.

And you know John doesn’t do it for the wrong reasons. It’s not pity—because John is a kind person, a good person, the type to feel bad for others in difficult situations. It's not curiosity, though you know there’s a healthy hint of it. Who wouldn’t be interested in something different and strange? It isn't part of some kind of sinister plot.

It is genuine friendship—or something approaching such a concept. It is exciting and new for you. It's… _different._ It’s good.

You find yourself watching him: when he’s distracted, or his back is turned. You can’t keep your eyes off him. You can’t stop your mind from whirring away as you study every aspect of him. The way he stands; the inflections of his voice; the expressions that twist his face. He astounds and fascinates you, like a new, exciting case you can’t quite seem to pin down.

He is the first person to enter your life that you haven’t yet felt the need to belittle or mock. Well, sometimes, but not like you do with others. You’ve had people intrude upon your existence before, and you’ve tolerated it. But with John it’s different. It is not so much a case of toleration as it is of camaraderie. A partnership. It is the closest thing that you’ve had to that tricky, fickle thing others call ‘friend’. Never have you had such a connection with another person—not even with your brother. _Especially _not with your brother.

And you’re not quite sure what to make of it, this strange situation. You’re not the type of person to feel complacent with letting things remain unexplained. You need logic; reason and explanation. You need things to _make sense._

Everything with John, every word, interaction, and shared look. They are nonsense in your head, beautiful nonsense.

Maybe, just this once, it is okay to not know the answer.

You’re on a case. Running through back alleys, breath coming fast and hard, John right on your heels. Your mind is racing; eyes darting here, there, cataloguing. Everything is crystal clear, point-blank, and white, white, white.

Thirty minutes and fifteen seconds ago, Lestrade texted with the news of a strange, lurking-sort hanging about the home of the supposed suicide. You and John hailed a cab and headed to the scene. You caught the lurker by surprise as you jumped out of the cab, moving to kick his legs out from beneath him. He’d gone down, and you bent to look at his face—but he’d been ready. Pulling out a handgun, he had trained it directly behind you, aiming at John as he exited the cab. You had looked up, eyes meeting John’s, and that had been all the chance the man needed.

You had gasped as his forearm slammed into your windpipe and sent you reeling back. Coughing and clutching at your neck as your back slammed into the wall of a building. John had rushed forward and the assailant had bolted. You waved John off, assuring him you were fine. Executing an about-face, you took off after the man, John close behind.

Now, your breathing quickening with adrenaline, you hurl yourself down the sidewalk. Around the corner of an abandoned building. John huffs behind you. He sighs, resigned to another high-speed foot chase through London.

It happens when you jump the narrow gap between two buildings. You call out “John, come on, keep up!” as you tear across the rooftop. He yells back, something like ‘yeah yeah, coming’ when you turn your head in time to see it happen. He runs toward the edge of the building, legs bending at the knees in anticipation of the jump.

If only it hadn’t rained that week—that’s what you keep coming back to. What you can’t stop thinking of.

_If only it hadn’t rained._

Maybe you are making excuses, hiding the truth from yourself. That, if you hadn’t always forced him out of his comfort zone, dragged him so deep into danger that it was a struggle not to drown, he would still be here. If you'd stayed on the road. If you had followed the killer with feet planted on firm, trusted ground, John Watson might have lived.

But no. You leapt across rooftops, chasing a shadow over slick, narrow ledges, and he followed—as you knew he would. As he always did.

John Watson would have followed you anywhere, and he had done just that, face-first into his own death.

You play the moment over and over in your head. Your sharper-than-average memory records horrible seconds with painful, perfect clarity.

Sitting in the flat—your flat now, not yours and John’s, just _yours_—

You stare into the dark and watch it happen inside your head. A flashback stuck on repeat, and you can’t seem to find the stop button.

You dash ahead of him, no hesitation as you launch yourself from one rooftop to the next. You’ve done it before; it’s not a very big gap. John has done it before as well, right on your heels, as he is now. But tonight he’s falling behind. You dashed off ahead, leaving him to catch up. You turn your head, calling over your shoulder for him to keep up, and he forces his legs faster, straining. You can see it. Why didn’t you tell him to take his time, that he could catch up later?

Right. Because it was so likely for him to listen.

John nods to you, yelling something like ‘yeah yeah’. He surges forward, knees bending in preparation for the leap. But his feet skid, the soles of his shoes sliding on the damp roof. You freeze, stumbling as your sudden stop throws you off balance, body struggling to remain upright.

John’s momentum carries him forward, arms thrown out as he fights to regain his footing. He almost does—so close, so close—but his feet slip again as his knees connect with the concrete lip of the roof. His eyes flash up, meeting yours, and his face is calm, eyes filled with regret and—apologies?

You reach out your hand, body coiling in preparation for the sprint forward, but he is gone. Before you could even take a step, when all you could do was raise an arm, he was gone. Up and over the ledge, his body collapsing graceless through the thick London air, to the ground below.

The sound. The sound of it, the ending of his fall. Everything else about the memory is silence. Every word mouthed into the falling night. But that final sound rings out like a gunshot, a sick echo in your head.

A terrible, pathetic sound. A harsh thud, the nauseating _crunch_ of bone grinding into bone. You freeze, eyes open wide. You can still see him, suspended in a perpetual fall.

He looks at you, his name on your lips, eyes holding yours, and then—and then…

Gone.

You lurch up into a sitting position, eyes shell-shocked and bloodshot, hands gripped in fists around the duvet. You stare into the dark room, heart thudding in your chest like it is trying to escape your ribcage. Your breathing wavers between fast gasps and harsh sighs, blood surging in your ears.

“John,” You whisper, body thrumming with adrenaline. Your arm lifts, hand empty and grasping, but you don’t notice. “John?—John!”

Silence.

Gasping, you lower your arm. Spread your hands and run your fingers over the sheets. You close your eyes, letting your body sag as you draw long legs up to your chest, chin resting on knees. Hooking your arms around your legs, you focus on slowing your heart. You shake in the aftereffect of the nightmare.

_Nightmare?_ Your ever-logical mind whispers. _Memory—not a nightmare. Nightmares are unreal, fiction. Impossible. But a memory…_

_Memory is forever._

You open your eyes and stare at your knees.

“John…”

Heaving yourself out of bed, you draw silken folds of housecoat around your lanky frame and step into the hall. Bare feet whispering over the wood floor, you cross the flat and mount the stairs to the room above your own.

John’s room.

Reaching the landing, you hesitate before your fingers close around the door handle. Eyes wide, breath coming loud and quick, you twist your wrist, pushing the door open enough to look inside.

Moonlight tumbles through the window, painting silver-white streaks across John Watson's pale, blank face. Striping over his folded hands and pooling on his chest. His open eyes flicker, and he turns his head to look at you.

You shiver.

“Sherlock.” His voice is guttural and broken as he speaks your name.

“John—“ you step into the room and walk to the bed. Stopping only when your knees bounce into the frame, you look down at him. You brace a hand on the headboard to stay upright. “John.” You whisper his name again, free hand reaching down to stroke a blood-stiffened lock of hair from his wide, staring eyes.

He looks back at you, silent. At that moment, nothing makes more sense to you than slowly bending, head tilted to brush your lips over his. John lays still, hands folded over his chest as his eyes follow you, bloodied and ringed with bruises.

Leaning your head back, you leave your hand resting on his shattered forehead. Stroke the pad of your thumb along the curve of his cheekbones.

“I dreamt you were dead.” You whisper, and his split, smashed lips tilt upward in something resembling a smile.

“I know, Sherlock,” John says, and his voice is rough and rasping. “But…” His hands move, reaching up to take your face between cold palms. Fingers—bent, crooked, broken—curl along the hollows of your cheeks. You close your eyes, a pained expression carving grooves around the edges of your mouth. The bed creaks and John’s lips press hard to yours, fingers tightening on your face. You sigh into the kiss, squeezing your eyes shut as his lips whisper against yours: “…I _am_dead, Sherlock.”

“I know.” You breathe, eyes flashing open. They dart over the room, taking in and cataloguing every detail. An empty bed, an open window. An empty room, save for you.

“John,” you whisper his name. Press the heels of your hands against your eyes hard enough to see dancing white spots. Sinking down onto the bed, a sort of slow collapse, you lay across the ruffled sheets. Arms splayed out, your hands slide across the bedcovers. They smell of him, like John, and you can imagine him here beside you, complaining about you messing up his neatly-made bed. They’re not made now; left rumpled and creased. No one has been in here since John. Since he—

You make a soft noise deep in your throat and turn your face into the duvet cover, shutting your eyes. Pressing your cheek against the cover, you feel yourself shaking. You wrap your arms around your waist in a weak attempt to make it stop.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” you murmur. Something warm trickles down your face. Startled, you touch your fingers to your cheek, expecting blood. Instead, it is clear and tastes of the sea when you press your finger to your lips.

Crying—you’re crying. Not a lot, just a few tears trailing their slow, silent ways down your cheeks. But it’s still happening and you sit up, staring into the dark. You can’t remember the last time you cried—or what for.

All you know is you’re doing it now, and, contrary to popular opinion, it is not helping you feel better in any shape or form. You sit in the dark, legs curled up underneath you on the bed, and let the hours whittle by in silence.

The tears dry on your cheeks and you’re left with nothing but a stuffed nose and a sticky face. An emptiness inside that stretches wider and wider.

A knock on the door downstairs startles you from your moment of reflection. Lifting your head, you blink in dazed confusion. It is bright in the room. Mid-morning. You never noticed the sun rising, wrapped in your thoughts. The knock comes again, harder this time, and a voice follows it.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, you’d better be in there, this is important!” A pause, followed by more insistent banging. “Sherlock!”

Sweeping your robe around you, shivering in your t-shirt and cotton pants—the room feels empty now, cold and bare and lifeless—you walk across the small bedroom and pad down the stairs. Straightening your clothes, you pull open the door and reveal a flustered Lestrade.

“It’s about time, Sherlock, I’ve been out here knocking for...“ He pauses, falling abruptly silent. His mouth clicks shut over the end of his sentence. He is looking at you—staring at you with lines of shocked surprise on his face.

“Ah,” Lestrade begins, taking in a slow breath and letting it sweep out again in a sigh. “I can come back later if this isn’t the best time?” You raise an eyebrow, confused.

“No, now is fine.” You say slowly, casting him an inquisitive look as you step aside to let him into the flat. “Is something wrong, Detective-Inspector?” You ask, shutting the door before turning to face him with your arms folded across your chest. Lestrade is silent, hovering in the sitting room as he half-turns to look at you. He seems uncertain of what to say. Then, slowly, he draws the tip of his index finger down his own face, twice on the left cheek; once on the right, down to the chin.

“You, ah—you’ve got… something on your face, there, there, and here.” He hesitates again. You brush your fingers across your cheeks, feeling the dried salt trails of tears. You drop your hand, tilting your head up with what you hope is a haughty expression.

“Excuse me.” You say, catching Lestrade’s nod from the corner of your eye as you push past him, heading for the bathroom.

Closing the door behind you, you turn and plant your hands on the edges of the sink. Leaning forward, you look at your backward reflection in the mirror. Sure enough, three lines of dried salt stripe down your cheeks. Scowling at yourself, you grab a washcloth. Wetting it, you scrub at your face with violent hands, the hot fabric reddening your cheeks.

You scrub until your pores gasp for air and toss the cloth onto the floor. Pulling the door open, you let it bang against the wall as you pass. Stalk by a startled Lestrade, into the kitchen. He watches you go by with surprise—something you pick up in the corner of your eye—and you ignore it. Begin pulling open cupboards and drawers.

“Sherlock—“ Lestrade hesitates in the living room as if uncertain what to do or say.

“Tea?” You bark, cutting him off and stopping anything he might think he needs to offer you. The man is silent for a moment, looking at you, watching you, eyebrows drawing together.

“Sure.” He says, finally, voice soft. You nod curtly, digging the kettle out of the cluttered sink and turning on the tap. Holding the neck under the spout, you turn on the water—hot, full blast—and stare at the gushing spray.

“Sherlock…?”

Lestrade’s voice startles you, closer than before. Your head jerks around, and you give him a deer-in-the-headlights look that seems to take him aback. He is standing against the doorway into the kitchen, a hand half held out, face uncertain. You stare at him until he drops the arm and turns away, embarrassed.

“You know—you don’t have to do this alone, Sherlock.” He says softly, watching you from the corners of his eyes. “You can talk to someone—a specialist, your brother, me, any of us.” He turns to face you again, and his face is earnest. “You’re not alone here, Sherlock—even if it feels like you are.”

“Shut up.” You mutter, turning away and shutting the water off with more force than necessary. “I’m fine.”

“Sherlock, you don’t have to do this by yourself.” Lestrade starts again, walking into the kitchen and leaning against the table. He tilts his head, and you can tell he’s trying to catch your eye. “You’re not the only one who misses him, you know.” He goes on, a sigh following his words. “At the station… everyone… well, it’s hard on us, too. John was a great man; he truly was a—“

“I said _shut up_.” You say in a soft, pathetic voice. Placing the kettle on an element, you rest your hands on either side of the oven, staring down at the stovetop.

“Sherlock—“ A hand comes down on your shoulder, hesitant. Your head jerks around, eyes wide and wild. Nostrils flaring, cheeks pallid, jaw tense. Lestrade’s face twists with shock, almost fear, and he is quick to release you. This close, you know he can see you. Can _really_ see you. The sunken cheeks and the heavy, dark shadows smudged beneath your eyes. The creases bracketing your mouth, new and carved into place over the past week.

“I said I’m _fine_.” You mumble, turning away. “Now—what do you want? Why are you here?” Lestrade is silent for a moment. Then—

“Well, maybe… maybe it’s not important after all. I—“

The sound of your hand slamming against the stovetop is loud, and you both jump. Lestrade stares at you as you lean heavily on the planted arm. Head hanging, you breathe in short, unsteady breaths.

“Don’t baby me, Lestrade,” you whisper. “I don’t need that right now—I have _never _needed that. So don’t. Just… don’t.”

You feel him staring at you, worried eyes boring holes in your skin. From the edge of your peripherals, you catch his slight nod. He takes a deep breath and starts over, his voice resigned and deadened.

“Murder—middle-aged man, found late last night in…”

You nod, letting the words wash over you, and trace letters into the slight film of grease on the stovetop: _J-O-H-N._

You’re making mistakes. Missing things and stating the obvious. Lestrade has started correcting you. And, embarrassingly, even Anderson is seeing things you aren't.

But it’s not your fault—it’s _John_. He won’t leave you alone.

He follows you as you pace around a body. Gets in your way when you try to collect evidence. Smears his fingertips over every surface when you try to lift prints. He hovers at your shoulder, touching you and talking to you. Coercing and distracting you at every turn.

This is a new case. The first since...since John fell. You bend over the hunched body of a man missing a large chunk of his left arm, blood spread across the floor. John, as per his new habit, kneels at your side. Close—too close. His arm pushes against yours and his side presses into yours. He is _right against you_, decaying breath whispering over your neck. He tries to grab your hand as you search the body for clues, making you jerk your arm back repeatedly, like a nervous tic.

“Stop that.” You say under your breath, turning your head and looking at him, your face dark. He uses the distraction to curl his fingers through yours and you sigh, shaking your head. “Get off, you’re distracting me.” You push his hand off; pry your fingers from between his and bend over the corpse again.

“That would be my goal,” John says softly, leaning into you again. It forces you to put a hand on the ground to keep from falling over as his weight settles against you.

“Yes, John, I get it. Now hush—I’m trying to work.” You mutter, shifting away and casting a quick glance at Lestrade. He doesn’t seem bothered by your mumbling—God knows they’re all used to it by now.

But John won’t stop talking. He’s whispering in your ear—“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock”—and breathing down your neck. You push at him, scowling, telling him to leave you alone. He’ is draping his arms over your shoulders. Resting his hands on your hips, smoothing his fingers down your back. Finally, you turn and shove him away, your face dark and angry.

“Shut up! Just—stop it!” You snap, and he looks at you silently, face blank. Lestrade jumps and looks around, frowning.

“No one is saying anything,” he begins, and, as you turn your black look to him, he steps back.

“Not _you_,” you wave your hand at John with a glare in his direction. John coolly returns the look. “John won’t _shut his mouth_.”

Lestrade frowns. Donovan walks over. The two exchange looks and she shrugs, folding her arms over her chest. Lestrade looks back to you.

“Sherlock,” he begins, slow and cautious. “John isn't here—John is dead, remember? He fell from the roof… he—he is dead, okay?” You don’t answer because you are engaged in a stare-down with John. You nod your head, tearing your eyes from the smirking face of your deceased flat-mate.

“Yeah—I know he’s dead.” You mutter, scowling as you look away again, bending to inspect a window ledge. “He also _won’t shut up_.”

There’s silence behind you, and you frown, thinking you may have given them the wrong idea. John takes advantage of your confusion to sidle closer again, leaning his back against the wall beside the window.

“Now you’ve done it,” he whispers, and you glare up at him from your crouch. His only reply is to smile and run his fingers through your hair as you shake your head. Brushing the hand away, you look over your shoulder at Lestrade and the rest of the crew. He looks at you with concern. Beside him, Donovan has a slight smile hinting at the edge of her lips.

“I told you he’d lose it one day.” She says, her eyes meeting yours before she turns to Lestrade. “John’s death did it—pushed him over the edge. I say we arrest him before he goes full off his rocker and murders some poor sod.” Lestrade frowns at her.

“Not the time, Sally.” He cautions, and brushes past her, moving towards you with slow, careful movements. You watch him, confused, then slam your back against the wall as realization hits you. The thump makes Lestrade hesitate, looking at you warily. You stare at him, pulse racing.

“They think you’re mad,” John murmurs in your ear, leaning his chin on your shoulder with a sick smile. “Off your rocker. Lost your marbles. A few cards shy of a full deck.” His arms drape around your waist, a smug tone creeping into his voice. “They think you’re crazy, Sherlock.” He brushes his fingers through the curls at the base of your neck, whispering into your ear.

_“Probably because you are.” _

Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing matters. You’re alone again. For the first time, this fact seems to hurt; to cut you deep. You used to prefer working alone—used to like it, even.

Now you are afraid it will rip you apart.

Perched on the edge of John’s bed, you tear at your hair with shaking fingers that work against your scalp and dig into flesh. Sitting beside you, legs folded beneath his body, shoulder brushing yours, is John. He lets his loose head roll back. Bloodied eyes half-closed, his arms hook around your waist.

You’ve lost weight. Have stopped eating. Which isn’t uncommon, not for you. But now, food holds nothing for you.

This entire world, and everyone in it, serves no purpose. Your looking glass shattered. In the narrow space between two leering buildings, it cracked and broke. Erupted into shards. Left you stumbling around again, lost in a world of emotions and expectations you don't understand.

“It’s your own fault,” John pants, breath hot, fetid, and putrid against your neck. His fingers move along your collar bones, jagged nails scraping over your skin. As always, he has taken the words from you. Plucked them from your head and answered your thoughts as if you had spoken them aloud.

“Why are you like this?” You whisper, pushing a hand against his hollow chest, shoving, trying to make him move away. “Get off me—you’re all over me, stop it. Why are you like this?”

“Because this is how you want me to be.” John murmurs, his voice an echo; a distorted memory. “Because you _make _me this way.” He slides his body against yours, latching on once more. His broken, bent fingers slide up your neck and tangle in matted, unwashed curls. “You’re punishing yourself, Sherlock. How _masochistic_ of you.” He croons in your ear, dead, dry tongue flicking out against your neck. You shrug away from him and return to tearing at your hair, working your thumbs against your temples.

You walk to the edge of the roof and look down. You can see his body, far below. Broken and small. Your hands go around your waist, fingers digging into the lines of your hipbones.

It isn't real. Of course it’s not real. The body isn’t there—cleaned up and removed weeks ago. Fixed up, decked out and planted in the ground, six-feet-deep with nine-inch-nails.

This is your mind playing tricks. It is not real. Even while you watch John’s arms move, sliding underneath his body and as he plants his bloodied, broken hands on the asphalt. Watch him push himself up off the ground. You know this isn't happening. That it’s not real.

It can’t be. It’s impossible, implausible; completely irrational.

John sits up, struggling to bend his shattered, crooked body into a semblance of normalcy. His head tips back and he looks up at you, a smile curving smashed, torn lips. He raises his arm, bent at a right-angle that is impossible and disturbing. His hand—fingers twisted, knuckles crushed—stretches out, reaching.

“Sherlock.” He whispers, a gargling breath forced from his blood-filled throat, so soft anyone could mistake it for a breeze.

But you hear it. It rings out like a gunshot and ricochets in your mind, echoing, echoing.

“John…”

You lean out over the edge and wonder if falling might feel like flying. John calls to you from the ground, a macabre invitation.

You close your eyes, thinking that it will feel like that, just like flying and step off the edge.


End file.
